JxHQ: Fetish
by princessebee
Summary: He was her fetish. It was as simple as that. It was a matter of all the little things, and all the little things made up him. Written for lj community psych 30's 'fetish' prompt. JokerxHarley. Warnings for adult themes.


She didn't know it could ever be like this.

That she could be so flushed and flustered, breathless with hunger. The flash of those purple eyes on her and suddenly giddy, tripping over her feet. And he laughs and she feels a twitch down below and looks at him longingly.

She'd never really known the trick before. Kisses, a little petting, a hard bicep to hang onto, a bunch of bright flowers wrapped in paper. These things were all nice and they all contributed to the end result, but taken apart they were woefully insufficient. She read romance novels and watched hardcore pornography and dressed up in silly costumes and these things helped to heighten it a little more. Sometimes she did it outdoors.

But often when the last little shiver of her orgasm had finished, she'd find herself lying there, blinking, with that old song going around in her head: _Is that all there is?_

And that's all there was. Until Him.

All of a sudden, it hit her _hard_; sensation flooding every vein until she trembled with it, aching and delirious. Arousal, pure and vicious, a need she hasn't felt the like of since she was thirteen and had a crush on some pop singer whose name she can't even remember now. All of a sudden, she _got it. _What all the fuss was about. And Lord, how had she gone _so long _without it?

But she doesn't think it's like this for everyone. She's part of a secret club now, an elite few who've struck lucky, discovered the trick and been initiated; but she's the only one for whom he's IT.

She's not even sure why, or how, but suddenly she possesses it, that trick. She doesn't even have to try, it simply happens. She can remember long hours of rubbing, different positions and saying _no, not like that, a little softer… a little higher… not quite…_ Frustration, giving up or faking it. Finally getting there and being too relieved to really enjoy it. How strange it seems now.

Now all it takes is a hand, gripping her arm roughly, a voice whispering with dark amusement into her ear. A wink of purple eyes, a brilliant smile, or a laugh, dancing off her skin.

Sometimes it takes none of that. Sometimes all it takes is a shirt, its armpits fragrant with the scent of him, or a shoe. Burying her face in it and breathing it in. Wrapped up in his things, getting drunk on them, her head lolling back and the tingle between her legs growing fiercer until she only has to press her thighs together and she's _there_. And it's always glorious.

She never would have believed that the sound of a certain laughter could make her wet.

But that's what happens, when she hears it. She flushes red, she trembles and her heart leaps. She squirms.

She never before heard all the things a laugh could say. Or a smile too. And how many of those things are obscene enough to make her blush, make her _hot_.

She basks in the sound of that laughter. Sometimes at Arkham when it rings out, the only sound that can temporarily quiet the other screams and groans that clot the air, she rolls onto her back and slips a hand down the front of her pyjamas. It never takes long.

But it's not just the laugh, no, there's the smile as well. How eloquent a smile can be, no end to what it can convey, and he has thousands of them. And they're all beautiful, even when they chill her to the bone. Even when she knows pain will follow and her answer to them will be a scream.

It's not as simple as that. Nothing ever is. It's purple eyes too, bright as jewels and as brilliantly glittering. Eyes that devour her and share secrets, that mock and indulge and blister with fury. It's marble-white skin, smooth over lean, hard muscle and scarred brutally in places. It's a bizarre, pristine beauty too inhuman to really be of this earth and luscious, thick, curling green hair that snares around her fingers. It's slender, strong hands with impossibly long fingers, articulate and dancing in the air while she follows them, or rubbing her so that she is drenched and gasping.

It's the tailor-made suits, rife with infinitesimal detail, the shiny black shoes and soft leather spats, one ankle crossed carelessly over the other. It's leather gloves, too, and how they feel when they caress her, or slap her. A silk topper perched jauntily upon his head, or a broad-brimmed fedora pulled down low. It's style from an age long lost, and a sense of showmanship that makes her beam and laugh and dazzles her so her vision spots. It's the pride so thick it almost gags her of having her arm in his and all eyes _looking._

It's the insinuating sneer in the word 'Daddy', or being called 'Pooh', or My Dame', or simply _MINE._

Even a little word like that can make her lurch within. Can push her over the edge when accompanied by his hand on the back of her neck, sending gooseflesh scattering over her skin.

"_Mine", _he hisses and she moans obscenely, pulses against his hand, because to be owned like this is delirium and she's never felt so right before in her life.

It's the ritual of him showering, scribbling trails of thought in the steam, whistling to himself while she sits on the tiles and watches with her lower lip slack. It's him dressing, her handing him each garment, the pull and flex of his muscles as he bends and steps and stretches and she squeezes her thighs together and feels that little flicker. It's watching him as he combs and powders and shaves and how each tiny little thing is all something else that adds to his whole. Now she can't even smell his pomade without feeling her nipples peak.

She wonders how she ever survived it, before she knew this intensity of feeling. Sometimes she wonders how she'll survive it now that she does know it. It seems too much to bear at times, but she wouldn't trade it in because having is always better than not.

And he sees it and he laughs and enjoys the sight of her flushed face and quivering body, her desperation and her need. He preens before it and encourages it shamelessly and denies her with glee. But that matters less and less because she learns that when all it takes is a look, a word or a fingertip rubbed gently down the length of a leather shoe or even the kick that follows after, it's all just icing on the cake and the cake can almost be enough.

In the end, it is all these things and moreover, it is simply Him. Each little part of him taken apart or kept whole, but always coming down to _him_. It is not one thing, or another, it is all of them and it's all of them because put together they make up Him.

And he is It.

_He _is the trick that makes her tick. He's the answer and the secret and the key that unlocks her so she pours out like honey. She's alive and awake, and reeling with pleasure. She's never known this before. She knows she'll never know it again. She knows it won't exist beyond him.

She also knows she'll never get past him.

As an experience, he is the pinnacle and there's no way to top him, and no need either.


End file.
